Generations series
by Suzume Jun
Summary: Four Nations have gone missing without a trace. When the remaining countries find out that it was of their own violation how will they convince them to come back? Will they succeed? Why did the four leave in the first place? What were they hiding? And were the others better off not knowing at all? Looking for a new title...


Complete silence is unusual at a Nation's meeting, (Unless of course it is instigated by a certain beloved German) but it seemed the entire emergency world-wide mandatory meeting would pass with such an atmosphere present. Why, you may ask? The answer is quite simple really...

... Personifications were disappearing.

There wasn't really anything to truly connect each of the missing nations to each other, yet at the same time everything seemed to do so.

They were sudden disappearances. Nothing to actually warn their companions yet all seemingly having been living on borrowed time for decades.

England

Norway

Canada

Romano

There were no signs of a struggle, no note found, nothing else was missing. It was as if the four had simply gotten up one morning , left, and never returned.

Germany was now constantly with his brother and Italy, as if afraid that if he left either of them alone for even a second they too would disappear.

"So how are we going to find them?" A majorly depressed and subdued America finally askd, he hadn't even eaten one hamburger since Canada had gone missing.

"Quite simple actually: you're not. You are going to go about your day as if nothing has happened and forget all about them." A bored voice answers from the doorway and all the nations suddenly snap their attention onto it's owner.

A boy who kind of looked like a twelve year old France was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest and right heel balanced on the door jam. Blond hair went just passed his shoulders and his bangs were cut in such a way that they naturally swept sideways, progressively getting longer so that the entire right side of his face was shielded from view. The eye they could see was the exact same shade of blue as the French nation's were (In fact they were so similar on might think they _were_ the same eyes themselves) and he had a sewing needle some how balanced behind his left ear. The jeans he wore were old, stained, and ripped though a perfect fit. His shirt a looked to be a light brown modernized tunic with a french flag embroidered on the bottom right corner. A well used messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, outside patched and stuck with more sewing supplies caught interest but not until the nations had reacted to his words first. Oh, and he was barefoot so there was no way he should have even gotten through the lobby let alone up to the conference room.

Shocked nations stare at the boy and the boy studied them with bored calculation as if trying to decide something. After about three seconds the nations start to react as his words actually sink into their minds.

Now angry nations's scream at him, some looking like they are going to attack him. Switzerland has his gun out, Germany is ranting at him, Japan's katana has materialized out of thin air, Italy is crying, Russia is gripping his metal pipe, and that's all that could be observed before the pre-teen is picked up off the ground by his shirt Scotland's fist about to smash into his face. However, the boy smirks in amusement as he manages to catch the fist in a surprising grip, shaking his head as his eyes study the Scott.

"Pathetic, no wonder Jamie never told you anything." The Scott's emerald eyes narrow and he is about to demand something of the boy when he catches sight of another coming towards them. He doesn't know why, the child didn't very much like Arthur but there was something about him that made Alistair absolutely sure it was his wee Albion.

The boy had crimson red hair that reminded him of blood, it was tied back with a piece of old leather into a high ponytail that went to his mid back. Bangs framed a face that seemed a mixture of both Arthur's and his own when they were younger. Short and more femininely built, he seemed maybe all of 10 years old at most. But his calloused hands spoke of years welding the sword on his hip that definitely should not have gotten past security with how blatant he was in possession of it. Worn work boots made no sounds as he moved down the hallway like a ghost and the stone washed dirt streaked jeans had a slight bagginess to them that was definitely styled. An open plaid button-down shirt was thrown over a white tank top and it's sleeves where rolled up to his elbow's. On his left forearm was branded the numbers 02–10. Looking at the blonde's left arm he sees the numbers 01–09 branded in the same place.

"Please excuse Paris, he's a bloody idiot at times." The boy says in a voice that Alistair had doubted he would ever hear again. Dropping the blonde, 'Paris' his mind supplies, he walks up to the ash-eyed redhead slowly.

"Albion?" He asks hesitantly and the boy kirks one thick eyebrow at him.

"Who?" The younger looking redhead asks in return and Paris laughs from behind Alistair.

"Stein was right, you told them nothing. Mon cher, Britt, even Italia only just passed by suspicion." France tenses at the nickname that passes threw Paris' lips. Remembering distantly the reason his Anglettere trusted him at first was because he looked like someone called "Paris".

"Britt" glared at Paris around the Scott in front of him for a second before refocusing his attention on Alistair and introducing himself.

"James Edward Isles, successful experiment number 2-10, Middle Britannia. Though some gits," here he glares at Paris again, "Call me Britt. Or worse-"

"Brittney." Paris cuts in, all smiles. "James" mutters under his breath about the impossibleness of bloody frogs.

"Sorry, but what does this have to do with the missing people and who exactly are you?" Japan asks, sword still in hand. Paris laughs and Britt shakes his head and crosses his arms just like Arthur did when asked a question he believed had an obvious answer.

"The 'missing' nations aren't missing. They have simply been pulled sense either A newer generation has been successfully made or the nation they stand for is being erased. One of us Will be back with one or two of the replacements for you since leaving them somewhere random to be found is no longer an option." He explains with 'strained patients come turning to leave with Paris in tow.

"So you could take us to the old generation?" Ireland asks hopefully and James stops in his tracks.

"Why would I? They are tired, injured, and most have been longing for the end since before they were mixed in with you. Their jobs I done let them rest." He said, not turning back around, "Come on Paris, we don't have a century to waste here."

Denmark grabs Paris' shoulder as Alistair latches onto James' wrist with a bruising force that didn't seem to faze the young boy. Cries and shouts of opposition against the two strange boys'opinion filling the room, it is (surprisingly) America's request that silences all in their tracks.

"at least let us say goodbye." His voice was small, sounding more like his brothers then his own. But seeing the way Paris stops trying to break the Danes grip and James hand hults it's journey to his sword the American regains the confidence that had all but disappeared from him recently. Knowing he had hit a nerve.

"Just so we can talk to them again okay? Say goodbye and if they really don't want to return we won't make them yeah?" They was desperation in his features and Paris looks at him with sad pity in his eyes while James refuses to face him.

Wales walks up to James so that they are facing each other and lifts the boys soon so that sleepy desperate field green orbs meet haunted scared infertile grey ones with flecks of dull green hidden throughout them.

"Os gwelwch yndda braw bach." It was as if a damn had broken inside the small red head. Tears pour From his eyes as he shoulders slump.

"Fine, but under one condition..."

**- Break -**

Germany coughs to grab the attention of the Nations after the two strange boys had left promising to be back tomorrow for the first group.

"So we're going to do this orderly." He commands, picking up a piece of chalk and writing down each of the four nations with five dashes underneath each name.

"When we get to a nation you want to visit raise your hand. The five with the best reasons for going shall be written down. After we shall discuss the order.

**Hello everyone. So, this is the fic that won the poll. For those of you who voted for this one congratulations, for those that didn't sorry the others shall be eventually posted don't worry, and for those of you who didn't vote at all I hope you're up to it now. I have written this series to be interactive. I'm going to post a chapter and then leave it slightly cliff hangerish with a question to answer at the end. Some will be in poll form while others, like this one, will not be. Unanswered questions shall be decided by me but that ruins the fun so please participate. This chapters question?**

**Who goes?**

_**England**_

**- Scotland**

**- Wales**

**-Ireland (Male unless requested otherwise by five people)**

_**Romano**_

**-Spain**

**-Italy**

_**Canada**_

**-America**

_**Norway**_

**-Denmark**

**-Sweden**

**-Iceland**

**Please note that answers with explanations will be more likely to be used then ones without. Groups will be finalized in the next chapter. (I am aiming for three weeks but that's if a bunch of you participate). Also, should I post the discussion or skip to the first group? Who IS the first group? Reviews obviously welcome, and a little expected. Until next time...**

**...Bye!**


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